LE PAYS DU TENDRE
During the month that followed, Fancy was very happy. Time stands still
for true lovers. Past and future seem immensely remote; the present,
with its rosy hours, holds captive the happy prisoners. Alfred, it is
true, had not yet put his fate to more than the touch. He had encircled
a slender waist with a reassuringly strong arm--no more. Being a Yellam
and a carrier, he disdained haste. Fancy was well content to stroll arm
in crook towards the altar. Indeed, upon more than one occasion she had
checked Alfred when about to explode into speech. Behind this
procrastination lay a maiden's quickening sense of the passion she had
provoked. Men whom she regarded as "devils" had accused her of being
prim and cold. She happened to be neither, but it delighted her to think
that she inspired restraint in her lover, that he treated her with a
delicacy less rare in big strong men than is generally supposed. His dry
humour appealed to her, and the rude Doric of this remote Wiltshire
village brought many a smile to lips that grew redder as kissing-time
drew near. As yet Alfred had not kissed her, although he had kissed the
_others_ many times. She gleaned this information from her fellow-maids,
who were very sympathetic and, apparently, more impatient for a
satisfactory consummation than the protagonists themselves.
Meanwhile, Alfred was learning how to drive a motor, and becoming
acquainted, very slowly but surely, with the "insides" of the great
beast. Already he regarded it as human, and of the same sex as Fancy. He
would say:
"She was ramping and roaring yesterday afternoon and spitting black
smoke at me. But when I coax her, she purrs sweet as any pussy-cat."
Lively chaff was exchanged between the lovers upon fortunes told by real
ladies, which turned out wrong. Fancy, however, still pinned her faith
to an old pack of cards in her possession, and to appease her Alfred
began to speak of himself as a soldier. When Fancy confided this to
Molly, she said maliciously: "Soldier, eh? Well, he ain't one o' the
'onward' sort, is he?" Fancy divined that Alfred would speak when the
motor-'bus was delivered; and there were moments when she asked herself
anxiously which of the two "hers" he loved the better.
Toward the end of July, her mind was set at rest upon this point. After
the first walk to the downs, Alfred discovered that Fancy tired easily,
although her alert little mind remained active and indefatigable. His
own brains moved slowly; frequently he was unable to follow the maid's
divagations and speculations. For example, he had asked her soberly what
she intended to mean by the expression a "poor soul," an expression used
by him in an entirely different sense.
"You came nigh upsetting Mother," he told her. "Dang me, if she didn't
think 'twas a biff at her."
"I meant a lean soul."
"Whatever may that be, dear?"
Always, when these problems presented themselves for solution, Fancy
would hesitate and blush a little, which hugely delighted Alfred, who
set himself the pleasant task of framing questions during his drives to
and from Salisbury to be answered on the next Sunday.
Having taken time to collect her powers of speech, Fancy said solemnly:
"Some rich people as well as poor have lean souls."
"Rich people? Do you know any rich people?"
"No, but David says so."
"David? You don't mean David Mucklow? He's a pore soul, sure enough."
"I was speaking of King David, who wrote the Psalms. When people's
bodies wax fat with riches, their souls grow lean."
Alfred nodded, feeling slightly uncomfortable. He weighed an honest
fifteen stone.
"Ah-h-h! They wax so fat that they stick in the Narrer Gate?"
"Yes; I suppose so."
Alfred considered this, frowning. Then his face brightened.
"I see you slipping through that Gate like a lozenge."
"Oh, please don't say that! 'Tis a figure of speech, Mr. Yellam. Thin
people may have lean souls. I sometimes think that my soul is lean, when
I lie awake thinking of--of----"
"Of what, dear?"
"Of myself, and what I want for myself."
"What do you want?"
"Lots and lots of things."
She evaded further questions, arousing a keener curiosity. Her
elusiveness frightened him. He couldn't understand anybody lying awake
after an honest day's toil. He tried to picture her lying sleepless,
with her luminous eyes gazing into the darkness. Did she think of him?
Did she really want him as he wanted her? The mere thought of her frail
little body aroused a strange reverence. His mother was right. A puff of
wind would blow her out of parish, blow her out of sight, blow her bang
through the Narrow Gate. And feeling this, with the stabbing,
ever-recurring reflection that she was the least fleshly of mortal women
whom he knew, he would not willingly have added half a cubit to her
stature or half a pound to her weight. In his eyes, she was just right.
Upon a never-to-be-forgotten Sunday, much rain had fallen. Fancy, who,
like most servants, wore too thin shoes, perpetrated a mild joke:
"'Twill be dryer on the river than on land, Alfred."
For some time they had called each other by their Christian names.
"You're right, Fancy."
The motor-'bus, gloriously red-and-yellow, shining like a sunset, had
been brought homealong the night before. Alfred shewed it to Fancy,
expatiating upon its superlative merits and beauties till Fancy's
jealousy was kindled afresh. Oddly enough, urban though the girl was and
advanced in her ideas, she felt as Mrs. Yellam did about machinery.
Whirring wheels and roarings and rampings aroused queer qualms in her.
Alfred took out the heavy silver watch which had belonged to his father,
and balanced it on the radiator. Then he proceeded to "race" the engine,
although he had been advised not to do so. The watch never quivered, but
Fancy did. She put her hands to her small ears, and ejaculated:
"O-h-h!"
"What's the matter?"
When the engine was purring gently, Fancy confessed that noise upset
her. Pistols, for example, discharged suddenly in places of
entertainment, made her jump. Alfred said derisively:
"What a rare wife for a soldier!"
"I thought 'twas going to explode, yes, I did."
"Not she. 'Tis a beautiful 'bus, and, maybe, she'll carry me and
mine"--he glanced at her now pensive face--"to fame and fortune."
With this hope animating his heart and voice, Alfred spoke at length,
and with impressive deliberation, mapping out a golden future. Already
he had made arrangements to transport passengers to Salisbury, likely
boys and girls anxious to attend the High School. He predicted an
ever-increasing traffic and the almost immediate necessity of running
two 'buses and engaging an assistant.
"Maybe such a job would suit a young woman I know, Miss Fancy
Broomfield."
Fancy hastened to assure him that such ambitions soared high above her
disabilities. Alfred continued, waxing very eloquent, letting loose
amazing phrases, setting forth prospects which must please and allure
his listener, talking at her so persistently that Fancy became
frightened.
"Alfred," she said, entreatingly, "don't make so sure of things."
"'Tis in my hand."
"I mind poor Father's plans, and that makes me nervous when you race on
so."
"What about his plans?"
"He'd a nice business, shoeing the carriage horses of the quality. He
never did fancy rough work. But it went to bits, when motoring came in.
That lay back of his poor health. We never know what'll happen."
"I say we do. God Almighty helps them as helps themselves. I'm helping
myself to a large spoonful, but I can down it, and more too."
Undeterred and undismayed by her protestations, he rushed on gaily, as
if driving his 'bus at excess speed. To Fancy he seemed to be whirling
out of sight altogether. Nevertheless she guessed that this
nerve-racking, soul-jolting excursion into the future was presented as a
joy-ride for her.
"If you ain't careful," she warned him, "you'll fetch up in Buckingham
Palace."
At this derisive quip, he jammed on brakes, regaining her sympathy with
the grim remark:
"Or in a ditch. You're right, my girl. 'Tis a fool as toots his own
horn. Let's say good-bye to the old van."
The van stood derelict at the back of the shed; the stout horses had
been sold at a fair price. Alfred locked up the door of the shed and
glanced dubiously at the grey skies. The afternoon promised fine
weather, but the grass in the park was sopping. Being a true Yellam,
Alfred had made elaborate plans; he had chosen the spot where he meant
to propose, a bosky nook in one of the smaller plantations, hard by a
tiny stream, where ferns grew luxuriantly. In this sanctuary Fancy might
be persuaded to take off her hat and gloves. Then, after due
preliminaries, the man would have his way with the maid. He felt full of
poetry, and quite incapable of expressing it.
"Wet as water it be underfoot," he growled.
And then Fancy made her small joke. Alfred jumped at the suggestion.
Twenty minutes later, they were floating upon the quiet bosom of the
Avon, where the river widened above the mill.
"Perfectly lovely," murmured Fancy.
Alfred nodded, with a heart too full for speech. The sight of his red
face amused the maid. She knew well enough what was simmering beneath a
too stolid exterior. He pulled up-stream with short, jerky strokes,
effective but not elegant. His jacket lay across Fancy's knees, a
protection against splashings. White shirt-sleeves bulged with big
muscles. They were heading for a small willow-covered eyot, really--as
Alfred reflected--a more secluded spot than the bosky dell. He could
push the boat through the reeds and bulrushes and find snug harbourage
under the willows.
He did so.
Secure from prying eyes, they sat together, side by side, at the bottom
of the boat. Alfred slipped an arm round Fancy's waist, and pressed her
to him. He wondered whether she would remain cool and calm, when the
burning question was asked. With huge satisfaction he noticed that her
bosom just heaved beneath her thin blouse. On this blouse rested a tiny
gold locket which held the portrait of her sailor brother. Alfred had
never seen this locket palpitate before. His own heart thumped almost
indecorously at the sight. Stealing a glance at her face, he saw that
she was blushing. The silence was so delicious that he hated to break
it--and didn't. Certain carefully-prepared phrases whirled out of his
mind.
"My!" exclaimed Fancy.
"What is it, dear?"
"A big water-rat!"
"So 'tis. I don't blame him for wishing to have a look at you."
The rat behaved charmingly, peering down at them from the bank, ready to
dive into his hole, if the trespassers upon his domain moved.
"He ain't afraid," said Alfred; "but I am."
Fancy said hastily:
"Don't move! What bright eyes he has, to be sure."
"No brighter than others I know."
"Shush-h-h! There! He's gone. I wanted to see him stroke his whiskers. I
wonder whether he be a gentleman rat or a lady rat?"
This happy remark provided a new opening. Alfred said with authority:
"He's a buck rat. He didn't feel frightened, but I reckon he'd told his
missis and the little 'uns that he'd just take a squint at a notable
couple, and come back. I'll wager a new hat, he's telling 'em a fine
tale."
"For all you know he may be an old bachelor."
"Ah! Rats are wiser than we. And Nature is kinder to them. 'Tis no big
business for them to get to house-keeping. When they're good and ready,
they go at it--slam bang."
"Yes. Animals don't want much."
Alfred pressed her a little closer.
"Take off hat and gloves, Fancy."
"Why?"
"'Tis a notion I have."
She smiled faintly, and obeyed. Alfred eyed the hat, a simple affair,
home-made. The gloves were of white silkette. Everything she wore seemed
to be part of herself, dainty, ephemeral, easily crushed and soiled.
"Put your dear head on my shoulder. 'Twill be more cosy."
She hesitated, and did so. Her palely-pink cheek lay close to his lips.
He said solemnly:
"I mind what you said, Fancy, about lying awake nights, wanting lots and
lots of things. Tell me about the things you want."
"I c-c-can't."
Her voice had sunk to an attenuated whisper. He realised that she was
trembling, and his own pulses throbbed with hers. He continued, more
fluently, pressing her tighter to him:
"Are you wanting grand things?"
"Oh, no. Whatever made you think so?"
"Because, dear, there is something grand about you. It mazes me, when I
think on't in my everyday way. You're Parson's parlourmaid, thank the
Lord! and I'm a plain carrier, with no book-learning and rough manners.
'Tis like this, Fancy. I'm of the earth, and you're a lil' angel.
'Twouldn't surprise me to find wings growing on your dear back."
He touched her back gently, to make sure. It was satisfactory to find
that wings, as yet, had not sprouted.
"I'm only a silly girl, Alfred."
He repeated obstinately:
"You're grand. I reckon 'tis your soul which comes nigh to busting your
dinky body. Now, Fancy, what do you think about, nights?"
Direct in all things, it never occurred to Alfred that a modest girl
might shrink from answering such a question in the sincere spirit which
put it. She smiled sweetly:
"When we talked about that, Alfred, I was thinking amongst other things
of...."
"Yes, dear?"
"That hat." She pointed a slim finger at it. "I wanted that hat ever so,
because I saw one very like it on the pretty head of Mrs. Lionel
Pomfret. I wrote a long letter to Father, telling him where to buy the
straw and the trimmings. You like it, don't you?"
"I never saw a prettier hat, but I like best the head as bobs under it."
"It cost me four-and-eight; not a penny more."
"Wonderful you be with your needle. Go on, Fancy. I reckon that hats
ain't all you think about."
"I think about Willie, tossing in his great ship."
A consuming envy of Willie, the sailor brother, assailed Alfred, but no
suitable phrase occurred to him. Fancy continued:
"Most of the time, Alfred, my thoughts are with poor Father. He does
miss me."
"I'll be bound he does."
"He enjoys such miserable health. He's a real farrier, doctors horses as
well as shoes 'em. And he takes his own medicine. I used to water it
down, unbeknown to him."
"Horse medicine? That's moving stuff. Looks as if your thoughts, dear,
never rambled far from the family."
"Oh, yes, they do. I think a lot, Alfred, about the future."
This was more encouraging.
"So do I; so do I."
"If anything happened to Father or Willie, where would I be?"
Alfred replied happily:
"I don't know where you would be, but I can tell you where you might
be."
His eager voice beguiled her, but she resisted its pleading.
"I might be almost alone in the world. My two sisters are married. They
live in small houses. There wouldn't be room for me. I like this place,
but, oh, dear! some places be awful. It's selfish to think of myself,
but I can't help it."
"'Tis a heartsome thing to think about. I think about you, Fancy, when I
drive slow along our roads. You fill my mind, you do."
He hoped fervently that she would say what he wanted and confess
outright that she let some of her thoughts dwell on him. But again the
poor fellow was grievously disappointed. She murmured confusedly:
"How funny!"
"Funny be damned!"
"Alfred----!"
"I don't care. I'm moved as if I'd taken your father's horse medicine.
You're raking me up with a small tooth-comb. If I think of you all the
time, 'twould seem fair that you'd think of me some of the time."
"Perhaps I do."
"Ah-h-h! That's better. We're coming to grips."
As if contradicting this, the aggravating witch raised her head. Alfred
grew desperate. Had he been browsing in a fool's paradise? The thought
palsied speech. He spoke angrily:
"I see how 'tis. You lie awake shaking with laughter, thinking what I
fool I am."
"Gracious! If you talk like that, I shall think so."
"I am a fool about you. 'Tis a fact. I ain't ashamed on't."
"Folks say...." She hesitated; her eyes twinkled demurely, but he
couldn't see them.
"Well, what do folks say?"
"That you're a oner with girls, on and off like."
"On and off? You're throwing big Eliza at my head. If I was a true
soldier man, always bragging about my victorious marches with women, I
might tell you 'twas t'other way about. Being only a timorsome carrier,
and a lover of God Almighty's truth, I say this. Eliza scairt the
gizzard out of me, she did. I fair ran away from her audacious,
ungenteel attacks. Now you have it."
Fancy laughed. Alfred fumed on, beside himself with love and impatience.
"I've walked out with many maids, some not so maidenly as might be. I'm
a picker and chooser, getting that much sense from my mother. I never
walked long with any of 'em. If you'd happened along fifteen years ago,
when the first petticoat hit me in eye, I'd have remained true and
faithful to you--so help me God!"
She remained silent, twisting her fingers. He said hoarsely:
"I want you desperately for my wife, Fancy Broomfield. And you know it,
being a clever maid. Now--don't you want me?"
He felt her body relaxing, almost slipping from him. Then, very slowly,
she lifted her eyes to his, and he read in their luminous depths the
blessed answer which her quivering lips withheld.
He kissed her reverently and tenderly.
To his surprise and delight, she kissed him, clinging to him, and
whispering pantingly:
"You'll be kind to me, Alfred; I know you will. I'm such a poor wife for
the likes of you. Your mother thinks so, and your Aunt Jane."
"You can twist them round your lil' finger."
"I believe you love your motor-'bus more than me."
"What a notion! Now I'm going to kiss such foolishness out of you. If it
ain't gone when I've given you the first big dose, why, I must begin all
over again."
The river lapped its approval against the sides of the old boat. A sedge
warbler looked on with his tiny head on one side. The tall reeds nodded.
The sun peeped from behind a cloud and shot a golden shaft upon the
pair. Why do we think of the orbed maiden, the Moon, as being kinder to
lovers than the great god of day, which warms and fructifies? Upon this
artless pair he poured generously his vivifying beams. Suddenly the
willows sparkled with diamonds, the grey river became a sheet of silver,
the sedge warbler fluted his hymeneal note, and other warblers joined in
the chorus.
And, far away, in a great palace, men were bending frowning brows over a
vast war-map, gesticulating fiercely, plotting and planning Armageddon.
But the lovers had their hour.